I try my best to live. I do what I can to smell the roses and suck the marrow out of life. But there are times when I forget. I scurry past the roses without so much as a glance, or I barely nibble at the bones and don't bother with the marrow at all.

And then something happens and I remember my mortality.

The most recent incident happened Oct. 10. It was 4:45 a.m., and I was on my way to work. My car hydroplaned, sending me first into a fish-tail, then a spin down the side of Interstate 20.

When my car finally settled, I called the police and called work, then promptly became hysterical.

Rarely in life does one evaluate friendships in such a way as I did through my delirium. Many friends promise to be there no matter what, even if it is three in the morning. But when the time comes, which promise holds true? Which friend do you call?

You call your ex in Iowa. He is obviously the most logical person to talk to in such a situation.

"It's a comfort thing," he said later when I called to apologize. "You knew I would wake up when you called, and you knew I could comfort you."

It was true. The conversation consisted of me blubbering apologies while he exhaustively stumbled over adrenaline-fueled words of comfort and concern. Somehow, it worked.

Hearing a voice on the phone reminded me I was still alive. I could feel my life crawling over my skin and soaking back into my body after being scared out of me.

Remembering my mortality made me hysterical.

One month to the day before my accident, my little brother totaled a Ford Expedition.

For the first time his life was in his hands; for the first time he nearly lost it.

A few days later he called me and tried to explain his new perceptions of life.

"I notice things now," he said. "Things I never really noticed before." I told him that was normal and that he had a greater appreciation for life and such now. He had a wake up call.

"No, that's not it," he said. "I notice blue things now. I never remember people having blue eyes before. Now I see them everywhere, all of the time. Blue is my color."

The day of my incident my brother called and asked what my color was. Confused, I asked him to explain.

"What do you see now that you didn't see before?"

My 17-year-old brother is a genius. I do not see anything never seen before, but I see things I had forgotten. I see life.

When it came time to clean out my car I decided to not throw anything away, not yet.

Friends say I am sentimental and keep things too long.

Other friends find it morbid that I pick pieces of my cars from the sides of interstates and keep them in shoeboxes. Both are true, but neither is entirely true.

I truly keep such things to remind me that, though I am alive, I can die. Shards of glass and a busted fog light let me remember this time I should have died.

When I see them I shudder and smile in appreciation of my life. Then I stop and smell the roses as I pass by.

Sharon Moore is a junior journalism major from Natchitoches and serves as a news editor for The Tech Talk. E-mail comments to sem010@latech.edu.